I grew up in a household of six brothers and a widowed mother. Our neighborhood was Irish Catholic, but we had a smattering of Italians, Poles, and Jews. We mixed freely because we all had poverty in common.
Mr. Feldman and his wife, both retired, lived below us in our three-story apartment. They had been very old for as long as I could remember. Mrs. Feldman was a short, plump woman with the whitest hair level saw. Her husband was tall and always wore a hat. Mama said that Jews, at least the men, always covered their heads out of respect for God. That impressed me, since I always made sure that my stocking hat was removed when I entered our church.
Mr. and Mrs. Feldman looked for all the world like Mutt and Jeff as they walked home from their trips to neighborhood stores. When I was little I always said hello to them.
"Hello, Sean," Mr. Feldman would say with a nod, "and how is your mother today?"
Then shortly before my 13th birthday, I helped Mr. Feldman carry groceries to his apartment. We spoke of the weather and the neighborhood and school. When we reached the Feldman's door, Mr. Feldman reached up with his fingers and stroked a small tube attached to the doorpost. He touched his fingers to his lips and then opened the door. I followed him into the apartment and set the bags on the kitchen table.
"What did you do that for?" I asked him. "What?" he responded.
"That thing you did at the door."
"Oh, the mezuzah." He led me back to the door.
"This contains a very tiny paper which has sacred words on it. I touch it and kiss my fingers to show respect for God's words to us."
"What does it say?" I asked.
"It is from our Torah, your Bible. It begins, 'Hear, O Israel ... Our God is One.’”
This was my introduction to Judaism.
Mr. and Mrs. Feldman started asking me now to do things for them. I never minded, and Mama insisted that I refuse the nickel Mr. Feldman invariably offered.
“They need their nickels more than you do," she said.
As our relationship grew, I felt free to ask Mr. Feldman about things I had heard about Jews.
"We don't eat pork or shellfish," he explained, "because it is forbidden in our Torah."
On certain occasions, Mrs. Feldman would insist that I stay and share their meal. She would take a set of dishes out of a cupboard and explain that these were dishes that a goy, or non-Jew, could use. They would even be washed separately from her other dishes, she told me. I didn't feel offended, though, because this was just part of their religion — and we had some pretty strange practices, too.
The Feldmans had a son, Jerry, who was away at college. When he came home it was an occasion for feasting and I was always invited. I remember being a guest at a Passover meal and hearing Jerry, then about 20 years old, ask the ageless question: "Father, why is this night different from all other nights?"
Jerry Feldman eventually joined the Marines. Early in the Korean conflict, the Feldmans were informed that their son had given his life for his country. This was in spring, 1952. I was 14.
"I know, Mrs. Patrick, that it is unusual," Mr. Feldman told Mama, "but I would so much appreciate if your family would join Mrs. Feldman and me at our Passover meal this year."
Naturally, Mama said yes.
